if you are looking ...

for Hannah's new blog, please visit

acrossthecapricorn.wordpress.com

'Not All Who Wander Are Lost' is in a dormant period at the moment.

Thank you so much for visiting!

excellent newspaper headlines

'Swede 1, Beetroot 0.'

This is an amazing headline. It refers to the opening weekend of the Premier League wherein Sven-Goran Eriksson's team, Manchester City, beat their inter-city rivals, Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United.

To unpack it:
- Eriksson is Swedish, the former manager/coach of the English national team, who left that post after the World Cup last year. Man City is a solidly middle lower team in the first tier of English football, almost always eclipsed by the other Manchester team, United, who Beckham used to play for before he moved to Spain's Real Madrid (and thence on to the (cough) LA Galaxy, a painfully misnamed team if ever there was one). Eriksson is a bit of an enigma wrapped inside of a conundrum for the English -- he is very dry and clinical, but managed to do quite well with England -- a hopeless job, as the English football team is very very good but not great -- ie, good enough to consistently get to the last eight of international tournaments but not great enough to get beyond. But good enough to raise everyone's expectations and then dash them, every two years. This drives everyone crazy. Also, there was a big sex scandal involving Eriksson and a nubile young secretary at the FA, which was bewildering to everyone. Eriksson is not the kind of person you could ever imagine actually getting anyone in to bed. He looks a lot like Mr Burns.
- Alex Ferguson has managed United for approximately one hundred gajillion years. He was born into a working class Glasgow family and is known for giving players who mess up 'the hairdryer treatment' wherein he stands very close to you and yells so loudly that your hair is literally blown back. He used to chainsmoke and has given up; now he stands on the sidelines and chews gum so violently that you almost expect his jaw socket to give way from overuse and the lower half of his mouth to flop down onto the pitch. He gets very very red when he yells (which is all the time) and stands outside on cold days (which is all the time).

I'm reading a book called 'Watching the English,' by this social anthropologist named Kate Fox, and one of the many interesting observations she makes is about the cross-class English joy of wordplay. Both the broadsheets and the tabloids take great joy in their punny amusing headlines.

And, of course, root vegetables.

cultural observation

there's a brilliant store in Ireland called Penney's. Kasia, you may remember it from when you came to visit. It's got great, cheap clothes.

In the UK, Penney's goes by the name Primark. Again, amazing cheap clothes and handbags. It's nearly impossible to get something at Primark without someone complimenting you on it, and then it's nearly impossible to not say something along the lines of 'Only a fiver!'

And the same way that people pronounce Target 'Tar-jay' (and the way my father used to call Roy Rogers 'Chez Ro-get'), people here call Primark 'Primarche.'

what is it about downmarket things that we are compelled to frenchify? why does it give us so much joy?

circuitous

I found this while going through old papers. I wrote it in the fall of 2004 (I think -- although I've been singing this song for quite some time, so really, it could've been written yesterday). It does wander a bit, but it's worth it (in my biased opinion). It's really two short essays, I suppose, linked together very scantily. For the record, I don't feel exactly this way anymore. Note the modifier.

*************************************************

I cried on that phone, that payphone on Clapham Road in Brixton, across the street from Tescos. I cried like a baby to my mother. It's awful here, I said. Everyone is mean. It's just like New York City.

I hadn't learned to look beyond. Everything just hurt at that point. There was no end in sight: I had been to flats in Vauxhall, Oval, Clapham, Belham, Kennington, Tottenham Hale, Willesden, Brixton, Kilburn, Streatham, Harlesden, Leyton, and more I'd forgotten, I'm sure. I hadn't grasped 'flathunting' as the great occupation and time-occupier it is. I just didn't, couldn't, face that hostel again. It was miserable -- I was miserable -- in that phone booth. Crying, red-faced, snot running down my chin, looking out at the street. The Nigerian mummies with their fantastical headwraps and prams, the emaciated young hipsters, the stubble-faced drunks: everyone had somewhere to go, something to do, and a place to return to at night, and I felt bereft. At last, I had absolutely nothing to do. I had nothing to do but search for a place to live, and I couldn't find one. Oh sure, there were scads of places -- some within my price range, most not. Some on nice streets, most (of those within my price range) not.

It was the first time, I think, that staying or leaving was completely up to me. I was alone. No one would be angry or upset if I left. Everyone would understand. I could go home. Or I could go to Scotland, or Wales. Or I could stay with Ben and Liz until they got sick of me. But fundamentally I got to choose.

What ended up happening was a lot like what happens everywhere, all over the world, every day. I made plans to go to Edinburgh, to investigate pastures new. I got the hell out of the hostel and brought my bags to Ben and Liz's flat in Euston (thankfully I didn't have to change lines on the Tube, my poor aching back). I stayed at their flat overnight and then got the night bus the following day.

I saw a place in Brixton the day I left for Edinburgh and I loved it. The door opened and the house smelt like my childhood friend's house. There was a cat. My room was small and only available for two weeks because its occupant was coming back from visiting family abroad. But it was cheap and it was in Brixton -- and Brixton was a lifeline. In the midst of the grey brusqueness of London, Brixton was a place I understood. Well, maybe not understood, exactly, but that I got, fundamentally. Our rough edges lined up. It didn't feel like home; nowhere did. But it was a place I could love. It scared me in the right ways, in the ways I knew to be scared: dark alleys, groups of fellows engaged in outside business, shadows you needed to watch to make sure they don't move the wrong way. Brixton is grimy but not trashy (well, if you don't count all the trash, anyway). But the market's colorful, stinky hustle and bustle, and the tension-begetting mix of classes and ethnicities -- that I got. That was it for me.

In the house, they told me the room was ready whenever, and I told them I'd be going to Edinburgh, but that I'd be back. I needed to hedge my bets, just in case. I think the room was such a short let they didn't think they'd get anyone, so they were happy to just wait for me. In retrospect it seems insane, but at the time it was a godsend.

I took the night bus to Edinburgh and got there at 7:30 am on January fourth, 2003. It was absolutely stone cold and pitch black. I wandered around until I found my hostel, and discovered I wasn't allowed to check in until two pm, but the overnight clerk, a very understanding young Canadien named Dexter, who I ended up almost sleeping with two days later, showed me to the lounge, where I crashed on the very uncomfortable dorm-room style couch until the afternoon.

If I was a pragmatic or practical person, I would've stayed in Edinburgh. I would've gone down to London to get my things, and come back up to Scotland. I met a group of good kids at the hostel, and I could've stayed there and gotten a job and found a flatshare and been content. Edinburgh is a gorgeous place: the castle on the hill, the Firth of Forth, glorious northern sunlight on stone. Friendly people in their own dour Scots way, and herds and herds of Aussies and Kiwis and gringos, all young, all smiling and happy to be young and to be drinking. Somehow, though, meeting everyone so easily -- knowing that the whole package was right there, waiting for me to pick it up and unwrap it -- it made it easier to leave. I didn't know if I was making a big mistake. I still don't know. But the knowledge that I could come back up and reconnect with everyone if London ended up really being shit -- plus having found that house in Brixton before I left -- made it possible for me to go back to London with fortitude. I was in Edinburgh for three days, went on a day trip to Glasgow (where I almost caved and there's still a five-pound deposit on a bedsit with my name on it; Glasgow is charming in a headbutting kind of way) and left Edinburgh two days after that on an early morning bus. Dexter saw me off.

I was terrified at my resolve. What the fuck was I doing, not taking what seemed to obviously be the easier option, why was I leaving someone who clearly fancied me, leaving a circle of goodhearted people who could become friends, leaving a town whose standard of living was significantly lower and whose people were significantly nicer. I didn't know then and I don't know now. All I can think is that there was a part of me that wanted to see if I could do it. I had faced the pit in that telephone booth outside of Tescos, I had somehow managed to climb out of it, into a place of comfort, and I was giving that up freely, in exchange for more uncertainty.

Of course, what happened then was: I went back to London. I moved into that house. I got a job that week, one of the most interesting office jobs I've had, and in Victoria no less, just four stops on the same Tube line. I found another place to live when it came time for me to move out. I stayed in Brixton; I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. I can, a little bit, now. Maybe. But then, it was my security blanket, and all the better that I be a bit unusual in my choice of security blanket. I knew (and continue to know) good people there. It's hard to live in Brixton and be uptight.

And that was that. I couldn't bear the thought of coming back, so I moved blind again, this time to Ireland, voluntarily undergoing the misery I'd been through seven months earlier. To my surprise, and relief, it wasn't as bad the second time around. I began to understand why people describe travelling as "addictive."

Looking at it now, it absolutely fucking boggles and amazes me. What the fuck was I thinking, moving to London without knowing a soul (except for Ben and Liz, not to be misunderestimated).

I do feel a little bittersweet about the fact that London will again be that fresh for me. It will never again be a place withought ghosts, ghosts of myself, of my former selves, of others. It will never again be incomparable to itself. Every time I go there again, I will think about those months when it was all new and frightening and thrilling and overwhelming and exhilarating. Like Nick Hornby writes in High Fidelity, there will never be a first time again -- no more first times to climb Primrose Hill, to dodge the fishmongers and phone card vendors along Electric Avenue, to cross Westminster Bridge, or Southwark Bridge, to wander wide-eyed through Borough Market, to be caught between the right angles of the Tate Modern and the majesty of St Pau's dome, to drink at the Oxo Tower as the sun goes down and the lights come up along the river.

I loved it in a way that I don't think I'd ever loved anything, or anyone, before. There are similarities, though: I long for it, physically, in the way that one longs for the body and the caresses of a lover. And I am pathetic for it, and utterly vulnerable in my patheticness, the way that one can be pathetically, and yet invincibly, in love, and the way that love can become an armor. And there are standards, there are stubborn boundaries: I will not be there illegally. I am not willing to live there, constantly hoping I won't be caught. And I will not trap myself with papers.

And it certainly wasn't a sudden falling in love. Well, maybe with Brixton Market. I had, I have, a lust for Brixton Market -- an urge to consume it, its brick and concrete and chipping paint and smelly fish and exotic tubers, its dirty mop water and its frilly itchy underthings -- a physically shameful desire to take it inside me, somehow. With greater London, though, I should say, I am mixed. I mean, I love it. I love the crowds and bridges. And I know it's not perfect. I hated it for the first few months -- or I would have hated it had it not been for Brixton and my relatively interesting job and Ben and Liz, and Dan, to a certain grumbly extent. It thrilled me, it excited me -- it simultaneously repulsed and fascinated me, and I didn't understand how to walk down the street until at least April.

Once I got the rhythm, though it was like swimming a stroke I'd always known but never quite put together before. Work, play, sleep. Fret about money, about excessive smoking, excessive drinking. Continue said habits. It wasn't that different, superficially, from my life here -- ah, except that it was in London -- I knew the 159 busroute by heart, I could name the bridges in order east to west, I knew where to find cheap eats and cheap drinks, it was London and I had found my path through it. It was enough, but not too much, for me. I couldn't imagine any more. I didn't need any more. I wanted to eat the sidewalks, I wanted my eyes to become videocameras, I felt nostalgic months before I left. I knew the end would come, and I dreaded it.

And, of course, going back to visit isn't the same thing. It's the highlights of my London theme park, my personal mythology of the city: Borough Market, Coldharbour Lane, Brick Lane Beigel Bakery, Oxo Tower, Tate, Muji. Taking the handbag with a wrap in it to the loo at a club with Tanya. Late nights smoking spliffs and fags, hungover afternoons in the pub watching football. It's not the day to day crap -- being late for the bus, trying to decide whether to walk out of my way for cheaper groceries or be extravagant and stop at the Sainsburys next to the Tube, circling things in TimeOut and not doing them, getting caught in the driving rain with no umbrellas and poorly sealed footwear. I could do all of those things here, and I do, but it's not the same -- I'm not in London, I'm not in London, I'm not in London, and that simple fact makes a world of difference.

Perhaps a flat search is much more like a life search. There are many spots that are close to right, except with one or two bits that you can't quite forgive. And then you find a place that is absolutely, incredibly right -- not because it's perfect, because nowhere ever is -- but it's perfect for you. You don't mind the problems -- it's worth it, to live there. And while there are times when you feel absolutely backed into a corner and you have to settle for, say, sharing a room with an unknown French girl for a month in Galway -- you do it. You do it. And later something works out. It's absolute crap in the process. You don't have a fucking clue except that your internal gauge tells you when and what it's appropriate to settle for.

In London, I knew the spot on Mayall Road was right, I knew I needed to be there even if it was only for two weeks. I needed a tiny kitchen with a compost bucket and vegetarian sausages in the freezer and homegrown tree in a jar on the spice rack and a cat named Kittenski, and I would have lived there forever if I could have, braving the walk past Dexter's Playground (few things less savory in a neighborhood than abandoned playgrounds) every night. But then I had to move.

And I didn't want to move to a posh refurnished house on Effra Lane or Railton Road, and Strathmore Gardens didn't want me, and so I moved into the house on Somerleyton Road. Even though I knew it was illegal, even though it was on a really dodgy street. Even though it was all girls and I was intimidated by their multilingual European sophistication. And I loved that house: loved that it was cheap, loved the thin walls and hearing My and Chico make love next door, loved the little anteroom by the door where you were meant to take your shoes off and I never did. I hated the crappy crappy shower though. But it was our beautiful house, with our three tiny fridges and our back garden, and I made rice and beans for Ben and Liz and everyone ended up eating together and it was like a little paradise (albeit with Rena and Jocelyne fighting) until My left and then the council found us out and we all had to leave.

So then I found the spot near the police station. And my room was small, and Mario the letting agent was a prick, but my flatmates were fine, though certainly not gregarious. But I met Xavi, and I got to stay in Brixton.

And so I guess is really is a matter of needing different things at different times, and being aware of what those needs are, and which ones you can compromise on, and which ones you can't. I couldn't compromise on living outside of Brixton, but I could live with sulky Slovakians. I couldn't share a room, but I could live down a slightly dodgy, underlit road, with groups of dealers spaced along it.

If I was there -- and working -- what would be different that here? I would be working a crap job I don't like (check), worrying about money (check), not knowing what I wanted to do with my life (check), being utterly frustrated by men (check), smoking too much (check), not doing theater (hmmm) -- oh, but the thrill. The simple ruddy nonpareil thrill of the river churning grey in the morning. The protesters outside Parliament. Paying through the nose for a decent, or even mediocre, cup of filter coffee, not that crappy espresso and hot water crap they shove at you. Good sandwiches, no delis. Not knowing what do so, so taking a walking from Marble Arch to Oxford Circus to Piccadilly and over to Leicester Square then down to Trafalgar and getting on the bloody bus home, why did I even bother to come out tonight I'm so fucking skint. Lager and lime, and ten packs of silk cut or pall mall or benson and hedges, and off licences and the fascinating people who work at them.

It always ends up as a list, a litany, a lament for what feels lost. Why does it feel lost? Can I ever get it back? Do I want it back?

*********************************************

So this is me, now, Hannah circa 2007, looking four months down the line: it will be scary, again, getting off that plane, and it will feel like an insane decision. But it's not going to let me go, clearly, and I've not been able to let it go, and I'll be damned if I keep holding this ambivalence. I've changed, London's changed, it's been four years for chrissakes!

I posted this after a LONG hiatus, partly because I know I'm going to use the blog while I'm in Ldn as a way of keeping in touch and I wanted to start getting back in the habit of posting (cheesey, I know, sorry) but also because what's in it is true, and valuable information. It was certainly more true when I wrote it (for instance, I am no longer frustrated by men, but in fact deliriously pleased with the one I've managed to snag) but by and large, in my more painful moments, this is still where I go when I don't know where else to go. I go to my lists, to my laments, I take a walk in my mind along Brick Lane or in Brockwell Park, or I go to moveflat.com and check that I can still afford a flatshare in Brixton (answer: yes).

I'm going, and I'm excited, thinking about it makes me weep with relief and joy and fear, and that (obviously) makes me just a teensy bit crazy, but aren't you glad I've chosen to share it, rather than bottling it all up inside?

well, aren't you?

Eh, can't please everyone.

mas pronto!

a good way to have me go off you

is to successfully post an NSA ad on Craigslist, go through with it, and then tell me all about it.

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

ps. she was two years older than me!

aahh! so awkward!

Once upon a time, I worked up the courage to tell a man I had very deep feelings for that I wanted our friendship to be something more. He responded by telling me that while he cared for me very much, what I wanted was not on the cards, because I had come along in his life "too soon." Were our friendship to ever become the romantic relationship he envisioned us having, it would have to be a serious one, and that was not something he felt ready for or willing to begin.

I could write a dissertation on it, and in fact probably have, if you put all the scrawls on slips of paper together. Who says that? I mean, come on! Just say you aren't attracted to me, or that you don't want to date anyone! Something! Too soon? Ick.

And yet.

I don't know what I should have done, only what I did do, which was to draw out our "friendship" until it was so pathetic even I couldn't stand it any more, then dead him for a year and change, until caving into his requests that we reconcile before he moved two-thirds of the way across the country, so it really is all water under the bridge now.

I don't know what I should have done, and part of why I didn't know was that, in all honesty, his reason did make sense to me. His not wanting to be with me didn't make sense -- I mean, come on! -- but his reason, his "too soon," his regret at knowing it would have been good, but also that it wasn't what he was ready for -- that resonated with me pretty strongly, as much as I hate to admit it, and as much as I wanted him to get over the too soon thing and just stick his tongue down my throat, already! It made sense: there are some people you are ready to be with now; there are some people you pray you will be ready to be with should you ever get the opportunity; and there are some people, no matter how much both of you want it, that you'll never be ready to be with. I don't know what category I fell into for him.

Later that year, doing the transatlantic chat with G, I heard her say of her own fella, "I feel like everything I've done in my life up until now was getting me ready to be with him." (paraphrased, but you get it) and it struck me in that same way. You can't make someone be ready; they are or they aren't, and you can choose if you're gonna stick around or not. SMF, for example, stuck around for three months with me, and then we had the best relationship of my life, to date. Roostafari and I were both ready, but we only had three weeks of (deep, meaningful, smoketastic) fun because I left it too late, and I still regret that, still think in the back of my mind that maybe we'll get another chance.

I bring this up for two reasons -- partly because today I saw a repeat of the Gilmore Girls (embarassing, but true) and Rory was arguing with some boy she liked about why he wouldn't ask her out, and he said something along the lines of, You would be a great girlfriend for me, but I would be a really bad boyfriend for you. Which is a copout, too, don't get me wrong, but a more easily understood copout than "You're too soon," which made me feel like something -- what exactly I don't know, my very existence, possibly? -- was bad, and all my fault.

My second point -- and forgive me for rambling -- is, I'm getting a crush on one of my friends. Wait, let me not sugarcoat the truth: I have a crush on one of my friends, and it's horrifically inappropriate because it's

TOO SOON!

Oh God. What fucked up kind of karma is this?

Too soon. I am so not kidding. If we were five years from now, it would be all kinds of good. In fact, pre-crush me had even been kind of looking forward to five years from now, thinking, oh, girl, you sing the sad & lonely song to yourself in bed every night, but five years from now it is ON with this boy. Pre-crush me was kind of excited about five years from now -- I would have my bullshit sorted out, at least somewhat -- holla atcha, thirtieth birthday! -- and he would have gotten all his pseudo-intellectual wanking and deep artistic angst out of his system while having retained his twinkly dearness. Plus we would have both quit smoking cigarettes (although they are an intrinsic part of our relationship).

But somehow over the past week, I've started thinking about him more and more ... and now I can't stop thinking about him. It's maddening. I could name a long list of things about him I don't like, or find annoying -- plus I haven't quite yet been able to envision doing anything more than kissing him -- but the bottom line is, once you make that switch in your head, once you move someone from the Non-Kissable Column into the Kissable Column, it's pretty much over. There's no switching back until you do the kissing (or until they price a prostitute on Brixton High Street while walking back home with you, but that's another story for another time). The only people I've been able to move from the Kissable Column into the Non-Kissable Column are people I've already kissed, namely, SMF and Toxic Type -- who really deserves a better name!

We are already spending googobs of time together on this play (you knew who it was, don't lie) and then last night after rehearsal he came over for a quick minute and the rest of that el that Heather, SA, and I couldn't finish on Friday night, and we just had the best time. Talking shit and smoking and talking more shit. And yeah, I felt like I was back in college, getting high when I knew I had to go write a paper, and that's inappropriate because, hello, I've been out of college just as long as I was in, but it was still a really great feeling, that, oh, why can't we just stay up and talk all night? feeling. And when he reads out loud (shut up! we're dorks!) he sounds like this weird amazing combination of 123L and Garrison Keillor.

And I started thinking, why not? I mean, really, why not? I know he likes me and respects me. I know he's smart. I do not want to make the same mistake I made with Roostafari, not do anything until it's too late, only realizing what I might have had until too long afterwards. I think I know that he's been sticking around, in his own strange way, for me. So why not?

Other than the fact that I have railed long and hard against it, have umpteen times proclaimed myself uninterested in his overeager somersaults and name-droppings, and unamused by his attempts to impress me -- all true, until last week.

Other than the fact that Ellie would highly disapprove, and a lot of other people probably would, too. Other than being unable to imagine ever calling him my boyfriend, or introducing him to my parents, or asking other people to take him seriously.

Other than the fact that I am too old to date someone who is ... let's just say, I am too old, or even better, he is too young. The gap between our ages will not be as significant in five years as it is now.

Other than the fact that it's TOO SOON! We can't do this now! We can't start this, can't have this now. (But why not? You're always bitching about how you want someone who will blah blah blah ... oooh, I hate being a Gemini)

Gah!

So I called this Chainsmoking Skier I used to work with, who I've been trying to make out with for about a kajillion years, and we made a tentative date for Friday afternoon (I asked him if we could make out as part of the date. I am in no mood to beat around the bush. I need to know if this crush is as real as it feels, or if I'm just spring-sap-running-through-my-veins horny. It made the Skier really awkward, but we still have a date!) and this Close-Talking, Balding But Hot Californian (CTBBHC) and I have been emailing, in that who's gonna put themselves out there first? kind of way, but I don't know how/if that'll ever pan out, plus, does the CTBBHC really want to make out, or is he just being a friendly Californian?

But can I wait that long? I have to. I have to. At least until after next week. Who knows what will happen at tech week? We could have a huge screaming match and never speak to each other again. Or, I could come clean about how I feel and we could do it in the manky downstairs paint-storage room. Eeeeeuuw, gross. Forget that.

The other thing that freaks me out is that he is one White dude. I mean, blondie blondie bluey bluey. Caucasiantastic. Not my Toxic Type. Not even my Type, at all! The same way that SMF and Roostafari and the Southern Gentlemen were equally not my type, yet were meaningful and connected to me in a very real way. What does this mean? Is my type dead? Am I destined to lust after Joel Fleischman but marry Drew Carey? (Bad analogy, and worse rhyme, but you get my drift).

And of course, the other thing, the thing that REALLY freaks me out, is: What if it's not too soon? What if it's right, really really right, and I've been fighting it all along, and now it's here, and what if that's it? We get together, and that's it? What does that mean? Eeek!

Mikee is back, and not a moment too soon

when you're a famous boy, it gets really easy to get girls,
it's all so easy, you get a bit spoilt.
so, when you try to pull a girl, who is also famous too,
it feels just like when you wasn't famous.
(imagine it with a wee steel drum behind, and some handclaps, lovely)

One of the things I love about Mikee is how he speaks his truth. You'd expect his third album to be all about smoking spliffs on the estate, like the first two, but he's not there anymore. So he writes a song about .. this. And it's funnier, and more genuine, than posturing and bling-showing could ever be. A powerful reminder that there are stories worth telling no matter what your life is at the moment.

Brilliant!

in search of a cunning plan

Well, I didn't get the Fulbright. Bollocks.

I came close -- made it from the first round -- ten to one chance, to the second round, two to one chance. So, nothing to sniff at, especially for a proposal to Western Europe (much more competitive than the rest of the world) -- and I'm not despondent, but it is pretty crap. I was soooo looking forward to having the US govt foot the bill for pints in Whelan's (or Neactain's, Em!) next year, in exchange for some interesting (and might I add) relevant research on immigrants in Dublin.

So what shall I do? Shall I brood and brood, and spend my days nursing spiked cups of coffee, wringing my hands as I watch daytime television (Dawsons Creek reruns are my favorite, but the Cosby Show will suffice in a pinch)? Shall I sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho, for a husband? Shall I become a fitness-crazed robowoman, join a gym and Stairmaster my woes away? Shall I chainsmoke and write horrifically bad haiku? Or how about just a nice little cry on the sofa with a ciggie and some chocs (too Bridget Jones, but v v tempting)? All of the above? None of the above?

No! Non! Nyet! And further, nish-nish! There are books to be read, tea to be made and drunk, Merseyside derbies to be won (HA!), letters and emails to write, songs to be sung, revolutions to be planned, roots to be dyed (see attached), warmongering Republican administrations to be protested, Etc. Etc. I am stage-managing one of the most boring plays on Earth -- and yes, they ARE paying me, but not enough, and directing a fabulous play at my old high school (for which they ARE paying me enough, and the kids crack me up, bless them), but that's all over by May first. Also working my usual three-to-five part-time jobs, but that's a given.

In all seriousness, I am applying to Kings College for the MA in Cities, Culture, and Social Change (sounds a bit grand but I'm reasonably sure it's not) -- but I won't really know about that until late May or June, particularly concerning the financial side of things. If I get in (cross your fingers) I will defer a year and start in September of 2007. Why defer a year, you are asking, Dan? I think that, although the program sounds fabulous and right up my alley, I don't want to get the degree and then come back to the States and get stuck again -- so I want to do a little more wandering before starting the degree, with the intention that after the MA I could (cross your fingers on the other hand) get a job in the UK.

This is where you all come in, all you preposterously smart and tremendously dear people: What should I do between now and September of 2007?

Here are the parameters of the conundrum, should you choose to engage in this exercise:
- I want to save at least $5K (defray London expenses for the MA year);
- I need to be in DC July 15 2006, in NYC August 12 2006, and back in DC sometime in the spring of 2007 (weddings, dammit);
- I would like to spend at least two months living and hopefully working in either one or some combination of:
A) New Zealand (pro: I can get a work permit, con: it's hella costly to get there);
B) Slovenia (pro: cheap as chips, con: harder to get under the table work, esp as I cannot stand the idea of teaching English, yuck) (pro: but if I went soon I could be in England and/or Germany for the World Cup!) (con: but I am broke);
C) DR or some other Spanish-speaking country (pro: possibly very cheap, and I can regain Spanish fluency, con: could relearn Spanish right now if I commit to it) (also, more dengue fever and fewer adorably badly dressed men than Eastern Europe);
D) I'm open to suggestions: I can read Cyrillic (can't speak anything using that alphabet though) and my French is mort but revivable -- although I don't really fancy China or sub-Saharan Africa, to be honest, or anywhere extremely sandy, as it bothers my lenses;
- I need to pay off my credit card, $2-3K. I have student loan debt but the interest rate is low, so I won't count that;
- I need to go to the West Coast at least once before heading to London (projected cost around $1K);
- errr, that's it. Those are my parameters.

So come on, dream a little dream for me. That's right: give me some advice. How lovely to actually be asked for advice, for once, rather than just wondering whether or not one should give it! I'm open to any suggestions (other than prostitution and teaching English, yuck) and I know all of you sitting at desks, or nursing your first born sons, or supervising the raising of leaking derelict boats, or plotting revenge on your evil and/or incompetent superiors, you know, however you spend your day -- all of you have an idea for something you've always thought I should do, or something you've always thought YOU should do but you want me to try it first and tell you how it went before you decide. Or maybe you don't have that idea now, but you might in the next few weeks. Or maybe you have tons of ideas. Email me, now & forever. I will consider it all. However you want to play it -- come all up in my Kool-Aid, I told you the flavor.

Or you could come visit me in DC. Singly or in pairs or in groups. I even have a spare room with a futon in it. DC's nice in the summer when it's not sweltering hot mosquitolicious 9but the spare room has AC, never you fear!) We could go to NYC for a couple of days or just kick it around here, drinking lemonade and talking shit on the back porch. It's a gorgeous town if you stay a good distance away from the gub-mint people and the herds of tourists. I'm just sayin is all. Think it over.